


Cranberry Cabernet Reduction

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Developing Relationship, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Other, crowley struggles with the mortifying ideal of being known, oh boy i'm a big fan of that tag, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 4 for the advent calendar of prompts.Crowley has learned at least one thing about ducks, even if he's embarassed to admit it. Thankfully, Aziraphale is distractable.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 12
Kudos: 145





	Cranberry Cabernet Reduction

“You lot need to learn some decorum.”

The swarm of ducks, used to such halfhearted admonishments, shake their tails, shuffle, quack, and generate a generally expectant aura, the way they’ve done for centuries. Well. The way ducks in general have done for centuries, not - not these specific ducks. Although that one does look eerily familiar…

Crowley scatters a handful, sets the swarm - flock? Is there a specific term for a group of ducks? Must be - to greater heights of excitement, wiggling and quacking and waddling about, chasing tidbits in the grass. When Crowley shifts the bag from hand to hand, it crinkles, and the swarm turns almost as one to regard him, expectant.

“Come on, now, there’s plenty there,” he cajoles, gently nudging a duck with one foot. It shuffles, undeterred.

They stare. Crowley sighs. Capitulates. “Must be going soft,” he muses, scattering another handful, trying - and failing - to quash a fond smile at the renewed flurry of activity. “Don’t tell the angel.”

“Don’t tell me what, dear?” Aziraphale asks from behind him, and Crowley absolutely does not jump.

Does _not_.

“Hey, angel,” he replies, trying to hide the bag and his surprise at the same time, and failing miserably at both. “You’re early.”

But Aziraphale is peering intently, first at the ducks, then the bag. Blue eyes flick to golden, hold, wait, and Crowley feels a little like a bug under glass: pinned, helpless, oddly fluttery.

“What are you feeding them?”

“Hmm? Oh. Ah.” Prevarication will be a lost cause, he can tell; he maneuvers the bag back around for the angel’s scrutiny. “Fruit.”

“Cranberries?” Aziraphale asks, doubtful, and Crowley shuffles from foot to foot in an unconscious mirror of the ducks swarming around their legs. He considers pretending it’s a demon thing but discards the idea immediately. Contemplates making something up about spoiling the ducks on purpose, so that they expect better from tourists and park goers.

In the end, he sticks to the truth.

“’S better for them,” he admits. The puzzled look on the angel’s face is melting into fondness, and he scatters another handful of cranberries as a distraction. Mutters, “Bread’s not so safe for ducks. Read it somewhere.”

“Of course you did, dear. How thoughtful.”

Crowley determinedly does not blush when Aziraphale tucks his hand into the crook of Crowley’s elbow, and resists looking at it only by dropping another handful from the bag.

“But why cranberries?”

Flustered, Crowley upends the last half of the bag over the shuffling swarm, sowing chaos. The cacophony of quacks isn’t enough to hide his answer from the angel, but it at least prevents any passerby from overhearing. “’S festive, innit? Seasonally appropriate, all that.”

Aziraphale is looking at him as if he’s confessed to some sappy, sweet thing, and it’s unbearable.

“Besides,” he adds, aiming for a roguish smile and landing somewhere between scowl and smirk, “I hear cranberry goes excellent with duck.”

It does the trick; Aziraphale rolls his eyes, huffs. “Honestly, Crowley,” he begins, and the demon grins.

“Come on then, angel, let’s not miss our reservation.” 

The return to lighthearted banter is enough, barely, to settle his nerves, set him back on solid footing. Although, with Aziraphale’s hand tucked into his elbow as they stroll through the park, leaving the quacking horde behind, it feels as if there’s a small duck trapped in his chest, all fluttery wings and hopeful wriggling where his heart should be. 

So if he laughs just a little too hard when the waiter declares tonight’s chef special to be “Roast Duck in a Cranberry Cabernet Reduction,” well.

That’s exactly as it should be.


End file.
